Bookish Fantasy

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Sometimes, I find myself buying a book at the used bookstore, thinking I’ve never read it, only to get it home, get a few pages in, and discover I have, in fact, encountered it before. Sometimes I don’t mind, but equally as often, I’m disappointed. I mean, I’m all for rereading things, but I want to do it consciously.

So, I have a bookish fantasy. I wish that whenever I finished a book, a ticker tape would emerge from my brain, like paper from an epson receipt printer, and be stored in some multi-dimensional pocket of the universe that I could easily access and cross-reference whenever I was book shopping. In this way, I could see for certain what I’d read, and when, and how much I’d paid for the copy.

As long as I’m fantasizing, I want something that will trigger my memory when I’m staring at shelves, trying to figure out what I want to buy, because often I read other people’s reviews, and think, “I should write down that title,” but I don’t, and then I have no idea what it was I’m looking for.

But then, other people likely don’t have this issue, just as I’m quite certain I’m the only person who can stand in the middle of a bookstore and complain, “There’s nothing to read.”

New Author Crush: Michael Perry

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I tend to read the same way most people approach a dip bar – several repetitions of one author (or, um, exercise) and then a rest. In plainer language, I mean that when I find an author whose work I like, I read everything they’ve written, as quickly as possible, in succession, and then move on, at least for a while.

My current “author crush,” as I tend to describe these reading moods, is one Michael Perry. I’ve written, already, about recently reading his book, Population: 485, and I’m currently in the middle of his second memoir, Truck: a Love Story. Both are warm, funny, vivid and candid in all the right balances. Both have thoughtful sections as well, and I’m really enjoying revisiting the upper midwest, in a way I haven’t done, through literature, since I first discovered Kathleen Norris, early in my marriage.

Norris and Perry are nothing alike, and yet, both have this intense love of the land that comes through their words, and makes you want to sink your fingers into fresh earth, or pick a sun-ripened tomato and eat it, straight from the vine.

I just wanted to take a moment, and share that.

Oh, and to say,the signed copy of Perry’s most recent book, in hardcover, arrived on Thursday.

Review: Hollywood Monster by Robert Englund

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Hollywood Monster
Hollywood Monster: a Walk Down Elm Street with the Man of Your Dreams
by Robert Englund, with Alan Goldsher
Pocket, 304 pages
Get it from Amazon >>

I have a memory from when I was twelve or thirteen (but probably twelve): I was sitting in the living room with my mother, stepfather, and stepbrother, textbooks strewn all around us on the floor, watching this movie called V, about aliens coming to earth to steal water and eat people. Mike Donovan, played by Marc Singer, was supposed to be the sex symbol in the show, but I was a geek, even then, and it was the friendly alien, Willie, that caught my attention. That was my first introduction to Robert Englund.

Two years later, had seen all of the V mini-series, and was excited to find out about an upcoming weekly series. I’d also seen one of Englund’s horror movies, Galaxy of Terror (notable for its weirdly impressive cast, and the scene in which Erin “Joanie Cunningham” Moran gets raped by a giant maggot), and was about to be introduced to another of this actor’s iconic characters, one Freddy Krueger, for the first time. While I was never the type of fangirl who wrote letters or anything, I’ll cop to having a crush on Robert Englund from the age of twelve. But we knew I was weird.

Knowing this, it should come as no surprise that when I read on Englund’s website (RobertEnglund.com) that he was publishing a memoir, and that one could buy regular copies from Amazon.com and regular booksellers, or pay a little more for a signed copy, I quickly whipped out my paypal ID, and ordered a signed copy. That was in October. On Halloween (appropriate, no?) I received an autographed photo of Robert Englund as Freddy, with an apologetic note that my copy would be delayed.

Things happened, and all of a sudden, I realized it was almost MARCH, and I’d never received my book. I sent a note to the customer service address, and received an email back that evening, that my order would be “checked on.” That was exactly a week ago, Sunday, February 28th. On Wednesday, March 3rd, I found my book in the mailbox. The cardboard priority mail envelope had been slashed as if by Freddy Krueger’s glove (not intentionally, I’m certain), and the post office had encased it in plastic, but the book was in bubble wrap, and unharmed. I read through all the postcards inside it, looked inside for the autograph (it came with an accompanying doodle of Freddy, drawn by Mr. Englund himself), and then left for Bible Study (and don’t think I don’t recognize a bit of irony in THAT).

I arrived home, did a bit of work, and then settled in to read.

By the time Fuzzy came to bed, I was two-thirds of the way through with the book, and I succumbed to the call and turned on a booklight, so I could finish it before going to sleep.

But, I promised a review. So:

Robert Englund’s memoir of his childhood entry into acting, and his resulting career as a character actor and horror movie icon is a delightful read. Candid and funny, it flows like a really good conversation, leaving you with the feeling that you’ve heard some great stories and sipped some excellent beer. The ghost writer/editor who helped shape the book was able to make everything sound like the voice Englund uses in interviews – a weird combination of erudition, cynicism, and charm, gregariousness. This is a man who takes his craft seriously, but doesn’t take himself too seriously.

I enjoyed learning more about the series of events that led Robert to the role of scream god Freddy Krueger, and about his relationship with role over the years. As much as I’m a bit disappointed that he won’t be reprising the part in the remake of A Nightmare on Elm Street due out this summer, I’ve read enough interviews stating that he’s okay with that decision, that I believe he is, and frankly, I’m enjoying catching him in dark, quirky parts that don’t require him to look like a mangled pizza.

While Hollywood Monster is probably best appreciated by fans, it’s such a great read that even non-fans would probably enjoy it. In fact, I don’t think it feels like a celebrity memoir at all. But then, it shouldn’t, because even though his job site is generally a movie set, Englund describes himself as a “working stiff,” and his book serves to remind us that working actors come in many, many flavors.

Personally, I like the dark, sardonic ones, best.

Tuesday Teasers: The Barbary Pirates

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On Teaser Tuesdays readers are asked to:

  • Grab your current read.
  • Let the book fall open to a random page.
  • Share with us two (2) “teaser” sentences from that page, somewhere between 7 and 12 lines.
  • You also need to share the title of the book that you’re getting your “teaser” from … that way people can have some great book recommendations if they like the teaser you’ve given.

I love a rollicking ocean-going adventure as much as the next girl, and I also love period mysteries, so when I was offered the opportunity to review William Dietrich’s latest novel, The Barbary Pirates, I took a break from packing for a trip and writing about online life insurance to respond with a heartfelt “Yes! Please!.”

The book (an uncorrected proof of the novel) arrived while I was away, and I’m on a few pages into it, but I had to share. Remember, this text is quoted from an ARC and may differ from the final copy, on sale on March 30th.

The tunnel kept getting narrower, however, squeezing down toward my head. I scraped several times, and could feel the trickle of blood from my crown. It was getting hard to breathe, the air stale, and finally my shoulders wedged and I could go no farther. Utterly dark, no hope ahead, and as I patted with my hands I could feel nothing but enclosing rock. I probed with my rifle, which only confirmed the passage constricted still more, far too small to wriggle through. Cuvier bumped up against the soles of my boots, and grunted.

“What’s wrong, Ethan?”

“I’m stuck!” I couldn’t get the room to even go backward. “This isn’t the way out, there’s no air. We have to go back to that little chasm we crawled over and go down.”

“Go down? Merde, I’m longing to go up!”

Review: The Mermaids Singing, by Lisa Carey

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The Mermaids Singing
The Mermaids Singing
by Lisa Carey
Harper Perennial, 288 Pages
Get it from Amazon >>

When you’re on a road trip having a good book to read is just as important as having cheap auto insurance. I thought I’d packed decent reading material for our recent emergency trip to Iowa (my brother-in-law died of brain cancer on the 17th), but when faced with downtime, none of what I’d packed appealed to me. In fact, it wasn’t until we were on the way home, last Thursday, that I found anything that spoke to me.

We were at a used bookstore (Firehouse Books) in Ames, IA, and Fuzzy was checking out when a paperback on the rack near the door caught my eye. I picked it up, somehow KNOWING it would appeal, and said, “Add this. Buy this for me.” And Fuzzy did.

That night, in a hotel room in Emporia, Kansas, I began to read Lisa Carey’s first novel, The Mermaids Singing. It’s a multigenerational tale of three women, Cliona, Grace (Cliona’s daughter), and Grainne (Grace’s daughter), and their relationships with each other and with the men in their lives. It’s candid and well written, and you can hear the Irish accents in the voices of the Irish characters, and smell the sea when Carey writes about sand and surf.

While this novel is technically not that far from the types of romances that Nora Roberts writes, it’s also a deeper story than even Ms. Roberts tends to pen. It opens with Grace dying of terminal cancer, and the chapters alternate in voice, as each of the women, including young Grainne, get their shot at narration.

What I liked most about The Mermaids Singing is that the characters have growth, but not every problem is solved by story’s end. Carey could easily write a sequel to this, if she felt like it, and it would be a welcome tale, but the book is perfectly satisfying without it.

Goes well with a fisherman’s sweater (preferably ‘borrowed’ from a hunky fisherman) and a mug of strong, hot tea.

Bookmarks: The Cloister Walk, by Kathleen Norris

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Earlier this evening, I was pulled away from listening to the manager of the hotel, Ross, telling us about a recent Orlando vacation, when I heard the bells at Our Lady of Lourdes, just across the river in St. Anthony Main, chiming the hour. I was struck by the calm that comes after such a sound, and I immediately thought back to my very first encounter with Kathleen Norris: The Cloister Walk.

The Cloister Walk was very popular when it first came out, but I had no use for such things until several years later. Now, reading about this woman from Dakota (via Hawaii) spending time experiencing the liturgy of the hours while living with Benedictine monks seems so beautiful and helpful. I’m not sure I have the discipline for such an endeavor, but there’s something in me that wants to try.

In a few minutes the chimes will sound again, and I will find calm after the last echo of the bell, just as I always find calm in the middle of a good book.

Bookmarks: the “Little House” books, by Laura Ingalls Wilder

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They may have been written with children as the intended audience, but from time to time, I still re-read Little House in the Big Woods and the various sequels, though most times I skip Farmer Boy. For the longest time, those stories were just books, but when I married Fuzzy and moved to South Dakota, they became real to me in a different way.

Charles “Pa” Ingalls always struck me as someone who would wear a t-shirt declaring himself to be one of the Free People, the sort who don’t settle down for long. I certainly understand that feeling, for I, too have itchy feet. I like to have a home to return to, but this time in Texas has been the first time in my life I’ve spent this many years in one location.

Laura, of course, is who I always identified with. Driving to Branson, MO, several years ago, I thought I should write about her journey to South Dakota, and later from it, and juxtapose it with my own trips to and from Dakota, especially my trips up the old highway 14, now known (between Shakopee, MN, and De Smet, SD, as the “Laura Ingalls Wilder historical highway.”)

So far, I’ve written nothing, but even thought we’ve never met, I think somehow my story is intertwines with hers.

Is that presumptuous? Maybe.

Bookmarks: The Elephant Man

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I don’t remember who wrote the book The Elephant Man on which the movies were based, but I do remember seeing two distinctly different versions of the movie. One was in black and white, and involved prostheses and costumes, and the other…the other creeped me out more because the actor playing John Merrick was not costumed, but playing the part with his naked face, and using only his body language to convey the extreme disfiguration Merrick had to cope with every day.

The latter movie could have been telling a story about someone with severe cystic acne, instead of the bone/skin condition Merrick had, but despite the lack of makeup, the lack of latex body parts and paint, I had no doubt about what I was seeing. Nor did anyone else.

It was my first conscious experience with the power of imagination, of letting the audience (or the reader) fill in the blanks.

I was hooked.

(Update: Amazon says there’s a play by Bernard Pomerance, and a book by Christine Sparks)

Bookmarks: Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe

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I started reading Nero Wolfe mysteries on a bus trip from Ashland, OR, to Fresno, CA when I was in high school. I couldn’t sleep on the bus, and Mr. Wolfe and Archie Goodwin kept me company during the long trek home.

Now, whenever I’m faced with a new or different food, I wonder what Nero Wolfe would think. How would he react to an ingredient like glucosamine sulphate, for example, or what would he think of the new trend toward chemical gastronomy?

Don’t get me wrong, Wolfe was a misogynist, and very much represented the period in which he came into being, but even so, he was a total FOODIE.

Tonight, sitting at the table in the Nicollet Island Inn’s dining room, watching the cold waters of the Mississippi River flowing before me, I ate a Walleye Meuniere with lemon zest foam and ham-hock risotto, and I was blissed out by the food.

But what would Nero Wolf have thought?

Bookmarks: Population 485, by Michael Perry

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I read Population 485 fairly recently. In fact, I’d meant to post a real review of this memoir about a man returning to his Wisconsin roots just before we got the call to race to Iowa.

If slimming pills can be found in the form of movies depicting the bloody brutality of mass produced meat, than pills of wisdom can be found in memoirs you don’t think have any direct bearing on the current circumstances of your life.

Translation: I picked up this book several months ago, and forgot I had it, then didn’t read it til I had almost nothing left in my pile. All this week, however, bits of it have been coming back to me – the most simple, and the most poignant. For example, at one point Perry writes about death, saying that it doesn’t really hit you until the last, empty casserole dish has been returned.

The community filled my sister-in-law’s house with food.
I fear what her reaction will be when the last tupperware container has been given back to its rightful owner.